


Nightmares

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flashback, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Sherlock/John friendship, The Great Game, the pool
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:44:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Sherlock who's having nightmares for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Post The Great Game. Hints of slash, but very pre-slash. Not betaed or Brit-picked, written like three seconds ago, so if you see a typo, tell me so I can fix it.

Jim. Jim from the hospital. It was him. All of this… the Great Game. But it wasn’t a game anymore. It was John. Strapped in his own semtex vest. And Sherlock had to stop it.

Then, just like that. Just as quickly as he’d appeared, Moriarty was gone. He left them alone.

Sherlock was on his knees in front of John before he even knew what was happening. “Are you alright?” Of course he wasn’t alright. He was wrapped in a bomb, primed to explode. But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. All Sherlock had to do was unfasten it. Pull at the ties, the zips, the snaps. Get it off of John. Away from him. Free his friend.

“Sherlock, I’m fine,” harsh breath. Not fine. Really not fine. But it would be fine after he took the bomb off. Only.

It wouldn’t come off.

Sherlock’s fingers pulled at the vest. As hard as he could. He would tear at the very atoms of the fabric if he could. But it wouldn’t. Wouldn’t come off. And there was John, standing in front of him. Head thrown back, breath coming in hard gasps. The rise and fall of his chest. Panic pretending to be calm. And the vest wouldn’t come off!

Still scrabbling at the material when he heard it. The door to the pool. The one Moriarty left through. “Sorry boys!” Cold voice. Deadly voice. Oh God, they were going to die.

And the vest wouldn’t come off.

John’s hands settled themselves on Sherlock’s shoulders. He heard it too. Moriarty. “Sherlock,” he whispered.

“I know,” he whispered back. No more fiddling with fastenings. Pulling, tearing now. Let it rip, let it break. Let it come off.

But it didn’t. It wouldn’t. That horrible vest stayed tightly fitted to John Watson, as if it were part of him. Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. Abandoning his attempts to save John—always save John, he _needed_ John—Sherlock buried his head in John’s hip.

Tears clung to his lips. They were going to die. “John—” Sherlock started, then everything went red.

 

~

 

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving. Nightmare. Just a nightmare.

“Sherlock?” John!

He didn’t think as he reached over and grabbed the good doctor’s outstretched arm. “John,” he panted. “John.”

“Yeah,” the other man nodded. Worried eyes darted down to where Sherlock’s fingers curled around his wrist in a death grip. “Everything alright? You were yelling my name. I thought it was for an experiment, but then I found you asleep.” Eyes move with his hand as John reached up to feel Sherlock’s forehead. Always the doctor. When he found no fever (only sweat) John let his hand drop away. Sherlock wished he didn’t. “Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Were you having a nightmare?”

A tight nod. Sherlock was still having trouble speaking. His mind couldn’t find any other words except John, John, John.

John smiled, sitting down on the very edge of the bed, far enough away to give Sherlock his usual space while still watching over his “patient.” But Sherlock didn’t want space tonight. He wanted to feel John under his fingers, know he was alive. That the pool hadn’t spelled his end.

“Isn’t that usually my line?” John said.

Finally, Sherlock managed to find words again. “The pool,” that was all John really needed to hear.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Neither man really wanted to mention the scare that was still so recent. A glance at the clock—Christ—less than twelve hours ago.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said. Soft, calming. Everything Sherlock needed. “That’s all done with. Bee Gees, remember?”

Another tight nod. Sherlock was still staring at John. “Yes,” he managed to force out.

“Yeah,” John smiled at him, gave his hand a squeeze. “We’re safe. And you need sleep.”

John moved to get up. No, he couldn’t have that. Without thinking, Sherlock tightened his fingers around John’s wrist. Not letting him go. “Stay,” so soft, it could hardly be said to be a sound at all. Barely a whisper. Less than.

John’s brow crinkled as he looked at Sherlock. “Please,” Sherlock said. “Please stay with me tonight. I….” Did he really need to say it? Couldn’t John just know?

One more look. Sweeping over him from top to bottom. Then. A nod. “Okay,” John said.

He moved without needing to be told. With a shrug of his shoulders, his dressing gown pooled on the floor. Sherlock let go of his wrist just long enough to move over, making room in his bed. That was where John stopped, so Sherlock pulled back the covers for him. Offering as plainly as he could without actually saying it.

John slid between his sheets and pulled the covers back up. “Alright?” He asked Sherlock.

He shook his head, then moved to lay on John’s chest. His arms snaked around the smaller man’s hips, pulling them flush together. Sherlock Holmes was a man with mercurial boundaries. Sometimes touch was allowable, sometimes it was not. Sometimes Sherlock needed to initiate, sometimes John needed to ignore Sherlock’s wishes entirely because he knew what was best. Tonight was none of those things.

John reached down and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him over until he was laying across John’s chest. Sherlock’s ear landed in the perfect spot: right over John’s heart. Yes, John always knew exactly what he needed. Sometimes, even before he did.

“Good night, Sherlock.” He whispered.

Sherlock didn’t return the pleasantry. Didn’t need to. Because right then, he knew where John was—could hear his heart. No matter what his dreams tried to tell him, he knew where his John was. And Moriarty would never take him away again.

The End


End file.
